Where does that leave us?
Carter is right. You can never run away from yourself. Forget bank balances, standing tall, and faking it till you make it. The old you will always be inside, dictating your life no matter where you go.
We’re the same reckless people from three years ago, unknowingly conceiving a child that would change everything. Forever.
“He’s mine,” Carter states.
Relax your shoulders.
Sit up straight.
I fail to do both of those things.
I probably look like I’m chewing on chalk. I feel every part of my anatomy tense.
Damn, I wish I could unhear a sentence.
I wish words were like pencil marks and could be erased.
Carter’s leather jacket crunches as he turns his body to face me.
I feel his gaze on my temple, but I refuse to look. If I do, he’ll do his usual and find the answer in my eyes.
But I’m too pussy to nod my head and make this real. So I slur a “No.”
“Carmen.” His voice is gravelly. “Don’t lie to me.”
17
CARTER
“It’s nota lie as much as it is false.”
Time for me to endure all of her denial until I eventually get through to her. She’s a tough cookie to crack; I knew this from the moment she landed on my lap three years ago like a dove.
But she can’t afford to waste time and shake her head when this is my son we’re talking about.
“He’s not important,” I state, repeating her earlier answer when I’d asked about Otis’s father. “Not important at all.”
“You invite yourself into my house, play Scottish clans with my son and then declare he’s yours? What’s next? You’re Carter Trescott’s evil twin brother?”
“Carmen.”
“Get my name out of your mouth,” she hisses, mindful of her tone since Otis is still in the room.
She must think I’m a fool. I know how I looked when I was his age. My mother liked to remind me every time I paid her a visit.The photo albums were always in her hands, her nimble fingers flicking through pages from when I was a toddler.
Her palms would lovingly brush over the plastic finishings. She’d stroke my face in the photographs, since it wasn’t acceptable to do so in real life on your thirty-something-year-old son. It was like she wanted to travel back to the past, to a time where I needed her again.
She’d live quietly in the memories while I was busy on my phone. She’d point out a picture of me pulling a funny face, and I’d laugh dismissively as she explained the memory that I wasn’t paying full attention to.
Because work always came first. I didn’t have time to dwell on the past. Money had to be made.
Yeah. I looked identical to Otis when I was his age. My mother showed me enough photos for me to know.
“Someone has to tell him.”
“No.” Carmen rejects the thought immediately, confirming that I was right. Otisismy son.
